


Scrapes and Needles, Hands and Tongues

by misha_collins_butt



Series: I Knew I Loved You [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Almost Caught, Dean - Freeform, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Denial, Drunk Kissing, First Time, Fluff, Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam - Freeform, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Smut, Sweet, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, alcohol use for tw, blood for tw, fluffy bb, handjob, instances that can be perceived as noncon, john walks in, physical injury, tw, wincest fluff, wincest smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is hurt on a simple hunt and Dean stitching him up leads to a bit more than he bargained for.</p><p>Un-beta'd; not American-picked, sorry if it sounds too British lmao</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrapes and Needles, Hands and Tongues

Dean screams and runs for his brother, sprawled limp and dirt-stained next to a gnarled stump. The beast runs off into the forest and John punches a tree trunk with a growl, watching them go. He settles enough to turn around and survey the damage.

Dean glances up at his father, who's breathing hard, watching him.

"Dad," he starts and John shakes his head, dropping his gaze to sift through the dead grey leaves to search for the silver knife he dropped.

"Dean, there's only two of them, I can take them myself," he says, finding the knife and gripping the handle tight in his hand. Dean sniffles and John looks up, walks to him, kneels in front of him. "Hey. Dean, look at me." Dean looks up with shining eyes. "No tears, okay?"

"I could lose my brother and you're telling me not to cry about it?"

"I could lose my _son_. Dean, he's not dead yet. But the wound is covered in dirt and the longer you argue about this, the longer he stays out here, the better a chance it has to get infected. What does infection do?"

"Kills people," Dean recites, nearly 17 years of hearing that from his father's own mouth, ever since he started teaching Dean when he was 4.

"Right. So if you don't want to see him die, get in the damn car and drive back to the motel. Stitch him up. I'll call you when I'm through here."

Dean bobbles his head obediently and slips his arms beneath his 16 year old lanky brother's frame, struggling a bit to lift him because he's weak right now and Sam may look wiry but Dean's seen him take down a 350 pound werewolf with ease.

He rushes back to the car, not even bothering to set Sam down in the passenger seat, sliding into the driver's side with Sam in his lap and slamming the door shut, adjusting Sam so he's on the seat next to him with his head on Dean's shoulder.

Dean whips his head around to look back at his father, who gives him a nod before turning to jog back into the forest. He swivels his attention back to the windshield and then his brother's head on his shoulder.

He can do this. Sam will live. Dad will live. They'll all be okay. He starts the car and skids out of the grassy field, and onto the lone, bumpy outskirt country road, stretching on for miles of desolation in any given direction, and starts driving.

About halfway there Sam makes a noise and opens his eyes but doesn't move to remove his head from Dean's shoulder.

"Dean?"

"Sammy, hey hey hey, just don't--"

"Where are-ah! Fuck!" His face twists in agony and Dean swears under his breath, trying to get Sam to stop moving.

"Don't. Move," he elaborates, heaving a hand off the steering wheel and looping his arm around Sam's shoulders to pull him back down. "Don't move. Your ribs got cut up pretty bad."

"Yeah, I kinda figured," he says but Dean doesn't respond, just keeps driving. After a silent pause, Sam adds, "Where's dad?"

"Stayed back to gank the last two, he'll be fine. Just gotta get you back. Gonna get you stitched up, get some water in you."

"Oh...okay," Sam replies softly head lolling on Dean's shoulder.

"Hey hey hey hey, Sammy? No no no, Sammy, come on. Sam? Don't pass out on me again," Dean's shaking his head frantically, losing control of the steering wheel once and swerving, trying to shake Sam awake again. After a long time in silence, Sam's eyes closed, head sinking down to rest in Dean's lap, Dean slams the steering wheel with his hand, shouting 'fuck' and sighing harshly. "Fuck," he repeats, less aggressive.

Minutes later, he pulls into the motel parking lot and shuts off the car with trembling hands. Gathers Sam into his arms and steps out through the driver's side door.

Struggles to open the motel door and shoves it open with his knee when he unlocks it, kicking it shut behind him. He sets Sam down gingerly on the bed and rushes to the duffle bag in the corner to find the first aid kit.

He can hear Sam stirring again and he pivots on his heel with the emergency box in hand, and strides back to his brother.

"Hey, buddy," he whispers, tucking the kit down by Sam's feet, bed dipping as he perches on the edge of the mattress beside Sam, who finds his face with weary eyes. "You doin' good?" Small nod. "'Kay, good. I'm gonna sew you up, okay, Sammy?" Nod nod. "You'll be alright." Dean takes a deep breath in and scans the dirty, dark red shirt, biting his lip. "Take off your shirt.

Sam does...or tries, at least. He can't lift his left arm enough.

"Uh, I...I can't," Sam mumbles, waving his hand at his arm. "Think it's broken."

Dean nods quickly. "Yeah, okay. Okay, just don't...try not hurt yourself." He hesitates at the hem of Sam's shirt, not enough for anyone to notice, and slips his fingers underneath, lifting it up, pausing to let Sam pull his good arm through before sliding the other sleeve down his left arm.

After he throws the fabric aside, he grabs Sam's hand and lifts his arm gently, examining the skin.

"Whole arm hurt or just the forearm?"

"Forearm."

It does look a bit crushed from when the werewolf manhandled him against a tree and threw him down, but nothing too serious.

"Alright...doesn't look broken. Maybe the bone is bruised but...no way to know without a scan..." He trails off, eyes catching on the two slashes across Sam's middle, starting to the left of his stomach, curving up across his ribs and ending just to the left of his lower pectoral.

John has a several scars, two of them exactly like this, one pair across his back and another up the back of his right calf. He's seen this before. Sam's gonna have these scars for the rest of his life. Because of this stupid, stupid life they're both forcing him into. Sam's beautiful skin, interrupted by these--

"Dean?" Sam's voice echoes against his skull and he's slingshotted back to the present, whipping his head up to acknowledge his brother.

"Yeah, I'm here, sorry. Okay, uh...sit back," he instructs, internally shaking himself out of his daze, a hand on Sam's shoulder to lightly push him back against the pillows and the headboard. He digs through the first aid kit and comes back up with a clean needle and some suture thread, pushes it through the needle's eye, trims the string and replaces the spindle back in the kit before turning and realising he needs to clean it off with alcohol.

Dean has Sam hold the needle for a second while he finds the rubbing alcohol and a towel and douses the cotton. He sits back down beside Sam, hands him an extra towel to bite down on and takes the needle, laying it down on the bedside table, which probably isn't sanitary but he doesn't have an extra hand and Sam might stab himself if he holds it while Dean's cleaning out the cuts.

Dean's free hand comes up and rests against Sam's right ribcage - to hold him still or to comfort him maybe - and tells him to take a deep breath. Sam inhales and Dean counts to three before pouring the alcohol over the wound. Sam's right hand flies up and grips Dean's arm tightly, and Dean allows him a moment to just breathe and pull himself together. Sam's hand relaxes but doesn't slip off Dean's wrist.

Dean picks up the towel again and dabs around the edges where the initial waterfall of liquid missed.

"You okay?" He whispers, discarding of the towel by balling it up and throwing it across the room at the entrance of the bathroom. Sam nods faintly and Dean gives him a reassuring squeeze to the ribs. Sam shivers visibly, just barely pushing into the touch, and Dean gets a hold of his train of thought even before it can derail. "Gotta stitch you up now, okay?" Nod. He moves to grab the needle with the hand on Sam's ribs but Sam doesn't let him take his hand away and Dean doesn't ask for an explanation, simply crosses his other arm over and grabs the needle.

Dean counts to three again before poking through the first few layers of skin and through to the other side, tying off the first knot when he's all the way through.

"Still good?"

Sam chuckles bitterly. "Dean, I'm not a china glass doll. I'm not gonna shatter, I'm fine."

"I know...I know you're tough, Sammy. Didn't mean it that way, I just--"

"Shut up and get it over with."

Dean watches him with a cocked brow for a moment, then nods and shoves the needle through again. By the time they're halfway through the second cut, Sam's only wincing and Dean's hand on Sam's ribs has moved up to hold him down because at first his whole body was twitching. He supposes it's not necessary to leave his hand there but Sam's still got a death grip on his wrist and his finger is really close to Sam's nipple and--

He clenches his toes in his boots to get rid of that thought. They've been happening more and more recently and he can't handle the idea that he might want to fuck his own brother. It's not like it's completely unwarranted. They spend about 25/7 together, even if they've got a couple free weeks to go to school. And most of the girls Dean brings home are just to pass the time, a cover up, blurred faces in a sea of other people, other towns they continually pass through. Sam is his one constant, his one ray of sunshine and beauty in this dreary world and who wouldn't fall in love with that, with the one person who's consistently by their side, consistently a source of happiness and endless love and radiating heat. He's got reasons. Hundreds. But he knows he can't. He knows--

"Dean," Sam pulls him back again, hand tightening around his wrist and Dean realises his fingers have stopped sewing, have dropped limply to Sam's side. He shakes his head outwardly this time, blinking away visions that should remain in the back of his mind and pulling thread through skin again. He can feel Sam's eyes on him, watching, observing. "Are _you_  okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Dean replies softly, pulling the needle through again. "Just a few more to go--"

"You're not fine, Dean. What are you thinking about lately that's so distracting?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play stupid. It's not just today, not just now. It's...the last year, almost, it's like you've been...somewhere else comple-ah!-completely," Sam explains, wincing more forcefully when Dean accidentally pokes him too far down with the needle. "Come to think of it, you've been like this since that party back in Fort Dodge in Iowa, when I got to stay at the school for five months."

"Shut up. Stop moving," is the only the thing Dean mutters in response, voice trembling just enough that Sam must catch it.

"What happened, Dean?"

Dean breathes out, pushing the needle through again, one more time, and one more time. Only a few more to go.

"Dean," Sam repeats, hand sliding innocuously up Dean's arm. "What happened. You're distant...weird about me touching you..." Dean catches Sam shaking his head in his periphery. "Don't want me to talk about the party and the weirdest things set you off and I..." Sam's face falls and so does Dean's stomach as realisation dawns on the younger man. "Are you being weird because of what I did? At the party? When I was...drunk off my ass?"

Dean doesn't say anything, keeps sewing until there's nothing left to sew, and ties off the string with weak hands. Trims it with shaking fingers. He tries to take his hand away again but Sam catches it.

"Dean, I was...not in my right mind and I'm sorry that that upset you and I've apologised a thousand times for it and I don't know what else to s--"

"Don't say anything. Told you to stop apologising for a reason, Sammy."

A smirk grows on Sam's lips and he whispers, "Never told me the reason, though."

Dean stares through Sam's chest, jaw clenched, hand clammy against Sam's side.

"Think you already know," Dean whispers back, twisting to drop the needle in the garbage bin. He turns back and bravely meets Sam's faltering gaze, catching the tiniest hint of recognition before Sam's sliding his hand back down to Dean's wrist and dragging Dean's fingers across his skin so they run over his nipple.

Dean's lips part in surprise and a short, garbled gasp escapes them. 

Sam's hand climbs up Dean's arm and his fingers brush back behind Dean's neck, pulling him closer. Dean obliges, no questions asked, leaning in so close he has to balance himself on his other arm, hand pressing into the bed next to Sam's hip.

He licks his lips, trying to keep eye contact, trying not to break and smash his face into Sam's.

"Should I have kissed you harder?" Sam asks softly, head tilting back, sunflower eyes switching between Dean's, which fall shut as he attempts to not let his mind wander. So close. They're so close.

"Sam, you were--"

"I was drunk. I know. Making me drunk doesn't make me stupid. Less aware of things around me, maybe. But not stupid. Dean, I--"

"Sam, you--"

"No, Dean. Listen. Listen to me for fucking once, okay? I know...all of your excuses. 'You're drunk, you don't know what you want', 'you're young, you don't know what you want'...'you don't want me this way, you're just lonely'. I've heard...all of them...four times at least. So just...listen," Sam's hand on the back of his neck is insistent, tugging him closer, closer, fingers brushing slowly, so slowly, up into his hair, making Dean arch his back downward, a shudder slamming up his spine. "I've wanted you since I was..." Sam shakes his head, an icy chuckle. "Ten? Eleven, maybe? Old enough to want someone - really want someone. When I was stuffed with alcohol that night, I wasn't confused...I was just bold enough to do what I've wanted to do for a long time."

Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gives in, hand spreading over Sam's chest, moving so his thumb can rub at Sam's nipple, diving down to attach their lips.

Sam kind of meets him halfway, lips locking with Dean's perfectly, like that night in Iowa. Less sloppy, this time, maybe. They slide together, wet and needy, and a sound resembling a broken moan leaves Dean's throat and is swallowed by Sam, who pushes up further. Dean shifts his balance to the hand on Sam's chest and trails his other hand up Sam's side, avoiding the stitches and landing on Sam's cheek, holding him there and slowing the kiss down. Prodding Sam's lips open so he can dip his tongue in and map out Sam's mouth, remember it for when they're apart and he thinks he'll never see is brother again.

When they come up for air, breathing fast and hard, Dean strokes his thumb up from Sam's chin, across Sam's swollen lips, searching Sam's face.

"Think I don't know what I want," Sam mumbles, Dean's thumb moving with his lower lip. "But what do _you_  want, Dean?"

Dean's brows knit low over his eyes and he doesn't move his thumb as he presses back down and kisses just Sam's upper lip, softly, pulling back just enough to search Sam's glimmering eyes.

He's just opening his mouth to say something when his cell starts ringing and buzzing against his butt and he jumps a bit.

He's disoriented for a second before he wrestles it out of his back pocket and opens it to lift it to his ear.

"Dad?"

"Dean, why are you out of breath?"

"H-I...I'm not. You just scared me."

"Right. Listen, I'm hitchin' a ride with a another hunter, so you won't have to leave Sam alone to come back for me. What's the damage?"

"Huh...um...cuts weren't too deep, easy to stitch, a couple of, uh, other small bruises and scratches. Possibly a sprained arm, nothin' we can't take care of ourselves."

"Alright...good boy. You don't let Sammy out of your sight, you hear? Take care of him."

"Yes, sir," Dean says out of habit more than obedience. There's a long, staticky silence on the other end of the line before his father speaks again.

"Be back in 25."

And before he can reply, John hangs up and Dean lowers the phone slowly, snapping it shut and throwing it to the bedside table.

He wets his lips and moves to grab the kit and start cleaning up but Sam's hand on his neck remains.

He watches Sam with raised brows and wild eyes but Sam's face is serene, his own eyes caught on Dean's lips.

"Sam, dad's coming ba--"

"It's a half hour drive," Sam says simply, cutting him off.

And how can Dean disagree with that? He switches between Sam's eyes and an angry pink blush crawls up Sam's neck, a suddenly shy smile marring his lips.

"Okay. At least let me put some stuff away first, huh?"

Sam nods and releases Dean reluctantly, fingers lingering just under his jaw as they slip away. Dean catches Sam's hand and presses a kiss to Sam's fingertip before standing and reaching over to grab Sam's bloodied shirt and then the kit.

He finds a bag and shoves the shirt inside, tying it off and tossing it beside the duffle as he replaces the first aid kit in the side pocket under the zipper.

He's back at Sam's side in a minute, climbing into the bed next to him and looping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in so Sam's head is on his chest and his bad arm is resting on his stomach. Dean aims the remote that he picked up from the other bed on his way over at the telly and turns it on to some old cartoons that Sam chuckles at.

"What? You used to love these," Dean says, dropping the remote at his side and turning his head to rest his chin in the mop of chocolate on top of Sam's head. "Made me turn this on every morning when you woke up after you discovered this channel when you were..." He shakes his head lightly, smile lifting the corners of his lips. "Six, I think? Couldn't go a day without 'em."

Sam only nuzzles Dean's neck, scooting up a bit further. Dean grins, pulling him closer, tilting his head down to plant a kiss in his hair. This is good. This is comfortable and...and right. It feels...natural. Like they were meant to fit together like this.

A sentence of silence between them, only noise the background music as the road runner flies past on the screen.

And then Sam tilts his chin up and kisses Dean's neck, just a brush of the lips. Innocent.

But Dean's dick gives an interested twitch that says otherwise. He breathes out, eyes not straying from the television, as Sam kisses his burning skin again. He leans his head sideways so Sam has more access and immediately there's a tongue on his neck, pressing into his flesh from between Sam's wet lips, which are working their way up to his jaw.

Sam nips along the edge and just as he reaches Dean's chin, Dean tilts his head down and catches Sam's lips in a frantic kiss, unoccupied arm sliding across their bodies to grip Sam's good shoulder.

Sam pulls away first and Dean chases his taste in hesitance but lets him go for now.

"I like that," Sam whispers, undamaged arm lifting so he can stroke his fingers back over Dean's cheekbone.

"What's that?" Dean smiles softly.

"Kissing you. It feels..." Sam furrows his eyebrows, hand hooking behind Dean's ear and thumb sliding across his cheek. "Nice." He shakes his head, eyes twitching down to Dean's scruffy jawline, thumb fiddling with the planes of his facial structure. "I don't know, there's not...a word. I guess it's just...it's not this huge thing that I thought it would be...you know, electricity between our lips and fireworks in the background. A twenty-one gun salute and a trumpet parade. I thought...explosion...and it's just..." He pauses for a very long time, everything on his body pausing with him, his thumb on Dean's jaw, his toes clenching and unclenching, and finally, he just says, "natural."

"Is that a bad thing?"

Sam laughs out a 'no' and Dean grins an eye-crinkling grin, tugging Sam's face up with his index finger. Kisses him, soft and slow.

Sam's hand wanders from Dean's jaw, down his neck and over his chest. Just when he thinks Sam's hand will stop at his stomach, it doesn't, creeping farther down, to the bulge in his jeans.

Dean's arm tightens around Sam and he gasps, hips pushing up into the curve of Sam's palm. Sam rubs him through the denim and Dean kisses him harder, arm around Sam's shoulders bending up, fingers finding Sam's hair and twisting in it. A muffled moan hops through Dean's lips into Sam's open mouth and when had their tongues twisted together?

Sam fumbles with Dean's belt buckle and suddenly Dean comes to his senses, hand flying down from Sam's shoulder to grasp his fingers.

"Sam," he mumbles against his lips, and Sam pulls back to furrow his brows. "Sam, wait, I..." Dean looks away, pursing his lips inward. "I'm sorry, I just...I feel like I'm taking advantage of you...you're hurt and probably kinda delirious and--"

"Dean, what did I say about excuses?"

Dean breathes in to speak again but pauses when he sees Sam's face. Pleading, needy, burning neon pink, lips swollen and wet, eyes hooded, ring of hazel-green just a line around his pupils.

No way can he pass that up. Sam's a hot mess and Dean loves it.

But...

"Dad'll be home any minute--"

"Fifteen," Sam interupts, pushing back up to kiss Dean again.

"What?" He inquires before Sam's lips can reach his and Sam huffs.

"Fifteen minutes. That's how long we still have. And you're kinda wasting it," Sam quips, brow arching over his lust blown eye.

"Sam..." Dean's out of excuses, corners to hide in, bricks to build walls between them.

"Please?" Sam whispers, voice tiny in the shadows of his mouth, lips so close. "Just let me..." He trails off, his hand unbuckling Dean's belt and slowly sliding it out of the loops, his breath blanketing Dean's chin as the older man tries to capture Sam's lips again.

Sam doesn't let Dean kiss him again until his hand is thoroughly shoved down Dean's jeans, stroking him through the thin fabric of Dean's pants.

Their lips fit so perfectly together and Sam's hand is warm on his cock and his hips are rolling of their own accord and, oh, God, he thinks he might come in his pants if Sam doesn't stop whatever the hell he's doing.

Dean loses control over his lips and his head rolls to the side but Sam just keeps kissing him, his jaw, behind his ear, down his neck and back up, hot and wet, sucking bruises into Dean's collarbone so Dad won't see and biting red crescents into his pink flesh. Finally,  _finally_ , Sam slips his fingers under the waistband of Dean's pants, teasing, then his hand, and he pushes them down enough that he can get to Dean's throbbing cock, pre-come dribbling from the tip.

Sam - oh, God, Sam - he turns his head to watch himself fist Dean's dick, thumb rubbing gently across the slit and dragging the bitter liquid all the way down to the base, and sliding back up, second knuckle of his index finger pressing into the underside. And since when was Sam the sex God? He's always been the nerd, golden boy in fuzzy polo sweaters and a book bag filled with text books and homework that's not due for another month, never without a pat to his puppy dog head or an adult praising him. And now, here he is, hand wrapped around his own brother's cock, bringing him straight to the edge of sanity, making him lose his balance and topple over with nothing to claw at but the person who pushed him.

Sam's name drips from Dean's lips, his nails digging into Sam's arm, other hand twisting in the bedsheets where it slipped from his hips, which push up off the bed and swivel in Sam's hand as the thick white ropes explode onto his belly and chest.

Sam makes a breathy, muffled noise against Dean's neck and Dean turns to kiss him, hard but slow, arm still folded tight around his back.

When he breaks away, breathless and wrecked, he leans his forehead into Sam's and smiles sweetly.

"Why do I have a feeling that wasn't the first time you've done that?"

Sam only smirks, eyes dark. But when Dean goes to trail his hand down to Sam's jeans, Sam glances away, cheeks burning red.

"What."

"Uh...already taken care of?"

"Dear lord, Sammy."

"Shut up, your dick is nice," Sam laughs, a soft Texas breath. Soft kiss. Soft hair, soft skin, soft everything.

They just breathe for a bit, sharing pecks on the lips and tiny smiles, galaxies in eyes and awe in the way their lips move together. They are stardust. They are grace. They are invincible. Unbreakable.

Except for one thing.

Headlights as someone turns into the parking lot and Dean is on his feet in less than a second, hand brushing over Sam's warm skin for as long as he can keep it there before he's rushing to the bathroom to hop in the shower and rid himself of the evidence. Dad _cannot_  know. Ever. It could be the thing that breaks them. Their kryptonite.

He hears the door squeal open just as he's turning on the water, and his father's voice fills the silence, asking if Sam is okay, then Sam's voice, small and raspy, assuring him he's fine, not even a little shaky. Great liar.

Dean steps into the shower and breathes out slowly. What has he just started.


End file.
